


The Adventure of the Abandoned Warehouse

by sans_patronymic



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Oral Sex, canon-typical hooliganism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 18:00:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6998764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sans_patronymic/pseuds/sans_patronymic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson recalls an escapade which is not fit to print.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the Abandoned Warehouse

In thinking over my acquaintance with my friend and companion Sherlock Holmes, it is difficult to abridge our countless adventures into a compact list of personal favorites. This Sisyphean task I employ often on long train rides, or in defense of insomnia—far more pleasant than counting sheep. I usually begin by grouping them based on, well, not _theme_ , as life has no such easy markers as themes, but by the overall impression which their recollection impresses upon me. There are episodes which amuse me, such as the business of the blue carbuncle; those which have tugged at my heart, as did the story of the unfortunate Henry Wood; and those, like the death of Openshaw, which have made me question the guiding forces of our world. 

Yet, there is one incident which defies such categorization, which never fails to amuse me upon remembering, and which is the type of account I shall never publish. It occurred shortly after the unsuccessful resolution of an unremarkable case and is noteworthy only for reasons of personal importance, as it was one of those rare moments when Holmes allowed me to glimpse at that exquisite, romantic part of him which is still, even after decades of friendship, oft hidden from me. It began, quite unromantically, with the two of us fleeing the London Docks, our tails very much between our legs: Holmes with a bloodied, but thankfully unbroken, nose, and myself with a sore jaw and a ringing in my ears that I hoped was not the result of a concussion.

"That was devilishly exciting, wasn't it?" asked Holmes, still holding a handkerchief to his nose in an effort to stem the bleeding.

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“It has turned out to be a rather lovely evening."

I told him that getting shot at, run down, and hooked in the jaw by a handful of stevedores was not exactly my idea of a lovely evening. He gave me a curious look before letting slip a bark of laughter in my battered face. 

"My poor Watson, they must have hit you harder than I thought; I said ‘ _lively_ evening'!"

It was that, I consented, though it denotes the thrilling nature of our lives then that the case on the whole was rather forgettable. As far as I recall, we had tucked ourselves into a corner of a waterfront tavern in an effort to unmask and apprehend the dockers involved in the theft and illegal trade of exotic birds intended for Charles Jamrach’s famous emporium. Unfortunately, Holmes had placed his bets on very much the _wrong_ group of lads; the only ones unmasked were him and I, who paid the price for our spying with a sound thrashing and some very sincere promises of what we might expect, should we ever show our faces in that establishment again.

We were just making our sorry retreat from Wapping towards Whitechapel, when Holmes halted us before a row of old warehouses which abutted the river. One or two had been consumed in a fire earlier that year and were subsequently abandoned, leaving ghostly shells of brick and beam.

"Watson, if you've the stamina for one more, minor adventure this evening, I should be very much obliged. I promise this time there shall be no violence upon your person."

"You said that four hours ago," I reminded him, not eager for another bruise and not liking the menacing air about the place.

"Ah, precisely so!" cried Holmes, "I am so rarely mistaken—it seems very improbable I should be so twice in one evening."

He then flashed one of those smug grins that leaves me unsure whether I wish to kiss him or clock him. Having had my fill of scuffles for the evening, and my judgement somewhat impaired from the dockman’s blow, I hastened to press my lips to his, heedless of our surround. It was well past midnight and the dark alleys of the waterfront were all but deserted—I doubted we were the only such pair to sneak an illicit touch under the circumstances. He tasted of blood and tobacco, and I should have been happy to keep on tasting him, had he not seized me by the shoulders and pushed me to arms’ length. 

“Steady, friend Watson, or we shall find ourselves in very dire straits.” He smiled at me still, eyes alight and intent on mischief. His nose seemed to have stopped its infernal flood and he withdrew his hand to pocket his bloodied handkerchief. “Shall I take your enthusiasm as agreement, then?”

“Where you lead, I will follow.”

“Excellent. Then if you would be so kind as to put your hands together and give me a hoist, I might reach our target.” 

My eyes followed the point of one of his elegant fingers to a darkened warehouse window, some eight feet above the ground. I looked back at him with what must have been an expression of apprehension and disdain, for he dared another kiss to mollify me. Reluctantly, I laced my fingers together as a foothold and with a bit of heaving, boosted Holmes onto the window’s ledge. He leaned down and gripped my forearm to pull me up beside him. The window had lost its glass in the fire, and we had no trouble making our way into the building. 

The warehouse was enormous, nearly six storeys in height. Some of the levels had collapsed in upon themselves, creating cavernous chambers of char. We stepped carefully through the mire of splintered wood and other detritus, the moon affording enough light to cast grimacing shadows all about. Along the far wall, a staircase corkscrewed its way up the corner of the building, its structure of steel and brick having spared it from the flames. Holmes gave the stair a testing shake before he began climbing, taking two steps at a time. I followed with the utmost reluctance, gingerly picking my way up the spiral, all the time clinging desperately to the rail. I had made it halfway up before he turned to regard me with an exasperated air. 

"Don't tell me you've a fear of heights."

I dared not take my eyes off my feet as I answered, rather afraid I might miss a step. "How can one not, under the circumstances?"

"Because it is useless. If we fell from this height, onto that rubble, we would surely perish. If by some miracle we did not, I have the good sense to bring a doctor with me."

"Oh yes. Very reassuring. Suppose I die and you don't?"

"Unlikely. I'm higher up than you are; I stand to fall the farthest. In any event, calm your fears, for it seems we have arrived."

I lifted my eyes to find the stair ended only three steps above me, opening out to the top storey. The ceiling had completely gone, save the steel beams which had once supported it, and the night sky loomed overhead in a brilliant canopy of stars. Holmes gripped me by the elbow, dragging me up the final steps and across the ash-strewn floor towards the southern wall. The windows had given way, folding together to allow the panorama of the river and the city to stretch before us in its glittering, nocturnal splendor. Throughout the years, Holmes has shown me countless versions of our great city, yet this is my most cherished: London sprawling out shimmering and serene beneath the innumerable heavens.

“This used to be Execution Dock, you know,” Holmes declared as he cozied himself up to the remains of a wall. “They would hang pirates and related brigands and leave them on display for the public as a caution.”

“Yes, I know.” He had a habit of forgetting London was my home as well as his, and while I may not know its every nook and cranny as he does, I am not wholly ignorant of its history. “Next you’ll be telling me that’s Westminster over there.”

“I did not say it to imply your ignorance, merely to relate a fact which I find amusing.” He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and smiled to himself. “And it’s impossible to see Westminster from here.”

“No, it isn’t.”

He shook his head, his smile becoming intolerably self-important. I moved myself closer to him with the excuse of better aligning our sights. 

“What’s that, then?” asked I, indicating a half-illuminated spire on the horizon.

“I cannot say with certainty _what_ that is, only that it _isn’t_ Westminster.”

“Oh, how would you know.” I crossed my arms against my chest in a very decided pout.

“I would know,” he retorted, “precisely because I used to come here quite frequently, for hours at a time, at various parts of the day, and even on a very clear day, I have never been able to see Westminster beyond the bend of the river—very good view of St. Paul’s, though.”

“You? Used to come here?” As much as I liked to paint him as the enigmatic Bohemian, I could not quite picture Holmes climbing to the tops of warehouses to admire the view.

“Here, or whichever of these buildings was least guarded at the time—they are all identical in structure—though not for such sentimental reasons as you’re thinking. Come—“ He drew me to the building’s edge, heedless of the precariousness of our situation. It was a vertiginous sight: some fifty feet below us, the Thames swirled, dark as ink and ever-ready to swallow up a wayward wanderer. Holmes laid a steadying hand on my shoulder and directed my attention to the opposite shore. 

“You see that embankment? It is difficult to make out in the dark, but the river eddies just along there. Between the change in current and the low slope of the bank, it is a very common spot for persons who were cast in upstream to make their final emergence. I attempted to catalogue such instances and discovered these rooftops—when there _were_ rooftops—made a very excellent vantage point from which to do so.”

“And so you sat up here, hour upon hour, waiting for bodies to wash ashore?”

“Precisely so. This was before we met; you were busy being shot at professionally, rather than recreationally, and I had very little else to amuse me.”

I hesitate to admit that this was not a very surprising revelation, and even more so to say that I found the image somewhat endearing. Perhaps it speaks to the strength of my affection that I am fond of the oddest eccentricities of my dear Holmes, for no reason other than they are what makes him singular. That he counted my friendship as better entertainment than his morbid vigil, I considered a great testament to his fondness for me.

Here, to my great relief, we retreated from the ledge and Holmes resumed his lounging. Once more the city stretched out before us. He took a cigarette from his case, lit it, and offered it to me, before lighting another for himself. We smoked in silence, our bodies drawing nearer until we rested against each other’s sides. When he laid his head upon my shoulder, a surge of feeling welled inside that could be called no name other than ‘love’. And such it was, for I did, and do, love him fiercely. 

I turned my head to admire him. In the faint moonlight, his skin glowed as polished marble, accentuated by the dark lines of his brow, his lashes, the thin smattering of dried blood clinging about his nostrils. His eyes were skyward, his lips parting to release a plume of smoke before he spoke.

“It is quite a place for introspection, though, isn’t it?”

I made a hum of assent, too busy enjoying my own line of thought to reply properly. His eyes flickered to my face, his lips now trembling as if considering something privately amusing. It was an expression that normally proceeded some petty insult. I braced myself for a callous remark against my lovesick expression.

“Yes, a lovely spot,” he continued, “Stars above, London below. All about is quiet and dark. I would think it quite a memorable place to have one’s cock sucked.”

It was by sheer miracle that I did not swallow my cigarette in alarm. 

“You brought me up here to… to _gamahuche_ you?” My tone was stern, incredulous. I objected not to the act, for we had certainly done such and more, but to the fact Holmes meant to seduce me with a secluded rooftop and a pretty view. I thought him above so caddish a tactic and myself quite above falling for it.

“I was planning it quite the other way ‘round—I wouldn’t _dream_ of aggravating your injured jaw any further.”

“Oh, no, of course not.”

“I merely recalled the solace of this locale and thought you might enjoy a small recompense for my folly.”

He took a final pull of his cigarette before smashing it into the rest of the ash beneath us. I tossed my own cigarette away before he had a chance to say anything else surprising. His eyes then lifted to meet my gaze, his tongue worrying his bottom lip in a calculated move. Lust curled in my stomach and made my cock stir as I envisioned those lips wrapped around me. His expression suddenly pacified and he gave a weary shrug. 

“Of course, you are quite right, Watson. Foolish of me to think you would be interested in anything so—“

Holmes did not have the chance to finish, as I grabbed him by the lapels and silenced him with a rough kiss. We staggered over the burnt remains of a chair, kicking up a cloud of ash as we went. When his back hit the wall, he let out a tempting little call of alarm, and our teeth bumped between our lips. 

Hats were tossed away, forgotten; buttons, undone; positions, reversed. I soon found myself pressed against crumbling brick, Holmes’s hand shoved resolutely down my trousers, fingers teasing along my length while his greedy mouth worried love bites onto my collarbone. Under his ministrations, it was not long before I was hard and aching for him. I gripped his arse in both hands, pulling him against me, my hips desperate to grind against his.

In another moment, he had my trousers open. The night felt cool and sharp against my exposed prick. Holmes gazed at me, his face distorted with longing and glowing with reverence. As much adoration I pour out to him on the page, he doubles back upon my body. It is a mystical feeling to know the sight of my cock makes him weak in the knees. I wonder how he ever survived those early days in the Turkish baths; we bared our bodies to one another long before we bared our souls. 

“A final thought,” he murmured between hasty kisses, “We are so rarely away from prying ears—I shall expect some very loud proclamations on your part."

“I love you,” I blurted as his thumb slid across the slit of my cockhead, fingers dragging behind in a slow, heavy stroke.

“That’s a start.” He gave me a parting kiss before sinking to his knees.

“I love you,” I called after him. Then, “oh God, look at you,”when he settled before me, for he was a beautiful sight. 

The moon accented the angles of his face and a magnificent bruise was forming on his temple. His hair was soft and pliant between my fingers, undone to better suit his disguise. I am not a man given to elaborate erotic fantasies, but the image of him that night—dressed as a ruffian and scuffed about the edges—has fueled many a lonely evening’s reverie. 

His lips pressed kisses along my length. Playing at obedience, he let me guide his head. As his mouth met the tip of my prick, it opened obligingly and I sunk into warm perfection. After a few loose dips of the head Holmes closed his lips about me, pulling tight. Grey eyes looked up at me with spurious innocence, as if he was unaware that each draw at my cock tugged at the very root of me. Eyes that batted their lashes as if he did not know precisely how to bring me off in an instant, if he so chose. Eyes that sparkled in the moonlight, determined to torment me.

"You've gone quiet." 

He had paused to chide me without even the decency to substitute his hand for his mouth. My prick twitched from neglect. I called him every awful name I could think of, much to his amusement. 

"That's better. Now, don't stop again or I shall too."

"Don't you dare." 

Holmes simply grinned and took me into his mouth once more. I reeled at the return. I sank into the brick behind me, tilting my head back against the wall. Overhead, the stars seemed to dance a celestial waltz, swirling in time with the undulations of his tongue and the bobbing of his head. He worked moans from my throat which grew louder and louder with each raucous repetition. In all my life I do not think I have ever given such free chorus to my lust as I did then; nearly two decades years of practiced, stifled grunts overturned by less than fifteen minutes of Holmes's expert handling. 

It was, as usual, his hands that were my undoing. In the ecstasy of the moment, I would have sworn he was an octopus, for it seemed his hands were suddenly everywhere. One wrapped around the base of my cock, while another ventured under my clothes to caress my stomach, still another toyed with my bollocks, and another reached behind to grab my arse, and another, and another, and another, and—

“Oh, God, I’m—“ 

That, and the tightening of my fingers in his hair was all the forewarning I could manage. I shook as I came to crisis between his lips. A second tremor of sensation overwhelmed me as he sucked me clean. Perhaps it was the blow to the head, but afterwards I saw spots. I reclined against the brick, barely noticing as Holmes redressed me. His lips were red and swollen with their efforts and they tasted of spit and spunk when he kissed me.

We hurried our descent, eager to be home, forgetting our hats in the process and lacking the will to go back for them. We wandered west for some forty minutes before finding a cab which would take us in our current state. When Holmes announced our destination, the driver must have thought us burglars. It was nearly three in the morning by the time we arrived at Baker Street, and we fairly collapsed into bed in an exhausted heap, scarcely bothering to undress.

“We’re getting soot all over the bedclothes,” Holmes mumbled into my hair. “Mrs. Hudson will have my head.”

“Better yours than mine.” I was still on thin ice with our landlady over the previous week's fractured ewer.

What a sight we’d be in the morning, bruised and dirty. My body began to take account of all its injuries. Every joint ached in protest. Sleep wrapped me quickly in her arms. In the haze between dreams and waking, I heard Holmes whisper:

“It has turned out to be a rather lovely evening."

And that it had, indeed.


End file.
